Nicole

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I fight back a tear as I listen to the radio caller. As I nod in the studio booth, my headphones on, I cover my mouth so I don’t sob during my own show. I’m not even sure I can bear to repeat what she’s told me out loud on air. But I’ll have to when it’s my turn to give Rachel from Murray Hill some advice.

The poor dear.

She hasn’t had an orgasm with another person ever.

Have you ever heard such a tale of woe?

No. Just say you haven’t. Because that, my friend, is a horror story.

That is fright night, all right.

“We tried all the positions that the Blue Steel site recommended, even the Crouching Cowgirl, which they said was a guaranteed path to an O, and that still didn’t work.”

The second she mentions Blue Steel, there’s no more hint of rain in my ocular forecast. My spine straightens, and I’m no-nonsense as I jump in. “Rachel, let me ask you something—did Blue Steel recommend the Wheelbarrow in its list of positions?”

“Yes,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “How did you know?”

I shake my head. That man-centric site is too much. “Listen, love. Do you honestly think any woman is going to climax when being pushed like a big old gardening tool that’s typically used for hauling rocks and dirt? And hey, if a lady can trip the light fantastic upside-down while doing a handstand, then I’m awarding her top honors in the Orgasm Olympics.”

Rachel snickers.

“But here’s the thing. Those positions you see on the men’s sites—they’re mostly about acrobatics and notches on a bedpost. A woman like you, who has struggled”—my tone softens, my deep and absolute sympathy for her as clear as day—“to achieve the ultimate in personal pleasure”—miraculously, I say this without breaking down into a pool of abject sorrow—“should look elsewhere. I would advise you to check out positions designed to maximize enjoyment for the woman.”

I rattle off some top-notch bring-it-on-ers, as I like to call my five favorite positions for climbing the peak. “But Rachel,” I say, propping my elbow on the desk and imagining I’m fixing this woman with a serious stare, even though my sidekick, Jamie, is the only one here, “if you’re not into the guy, you’re probably not going to visit the Promised Land. Do you like him?”

Dead. Silence.

There’s nothing worse on air than a whole lot of nothing. I push her again. “Does he do it for you? Does he make your stomach flip? Does he give you butterflies? Do you feel it in your knees when he kisses you?”

“Ummmmm . . .”

There is no time for hemming and hawing on a live show, even if the bulk of my listenership comes from podcast downloads the next day. “I want you to think about the stomach-flipping factor of the equation, Rachel. I want you to ask yourself if he’s the one you want. When you’re all alone, your eyes are closed, and you’re free to dream about whoever floats your boat, is it him? Does he make your toes curl? Because in my experience, a grade-A, top-choice, certified toe-curler is what’ll get you over the O hump.”

“No pun intended,” Jamie chimes in from her spot on the other side of the desk, her silver laptop flipped open, too. I hold up a hand and mime high-fiving her, and we do a shoulder shimmy in tandem. Yes, we’ve got this down pat. Sometimes we even swing our imaginary lassos in unison when we’re roping a most excellent point.

“I don’t know if my toes have ever curled, Nicole. But you’ve given me a lot to ponder. Thank you. I always love your advice,” Rachel says.

“And I love that you listen to the show. Now we’ll wrap up this week’s edition of Making and Breaking the Rules: Your Guide to Dating and Mating.” But before we run through the closing credits, I have something to ask of my army of women listeners.

“Ladies,” I say, in a serious tone. “Soldiers on the dating battlefield. Comrades in bras. Let’s all say a prayer tonight. A prayer for Rachel.” I bow my head. “If you’ve been lucky enough to climax with a partner, I ask that you send some of your orgasmic energy to Rachel in Murray Hill. Sisters in sexy times, we so desperately need all of your collective focus and energy on the great mountain ahead that Rachel seeks to scale, whether with her current partner or a brand new one.” I look up, and Jamie still has her hands steepled together in plaintive prayer. “And just remember—sex is good, love is great, and when you bring them together they’re even better.”

How’s that for a tagline?

After we play the credits and hit end on the recording session, I raise my eyebrows at Jamie in question. “Don’t even tell me you had ten orgasms last night like you usually do.”

Jamie laughs as she rises and walks around the desk. “Just two last night,” she says, in her cheery, chipper tone that matches her bright blond hair and blue eyes, as well as the big, fat, sparkling diamond on her left hand. Ah, to be so young and hopeful.

I had a ring on my finger once upon a time.

I gather my notebook, laptop, and phone, and head for the door, leaving Jamie behind since she works on the next show. As I head down the hallway of Hanky Panky Love, the dating division of the lifestyle media giant I work for in a role that's expanded from columns to also include the radio show, a masculine voice calls out to me.

“Hey, Nicole.”

A smoky, sexy, masculine voice, I might add.

Ryder Lockhart stands in the doorway of the studio next to mine, his arm resting on the door. That’s one lucky door.

If someone needed a photograph for a catalog of the casual, cool, confident male, Central Casting would serve up this man. The white button-down shirt that hugs his delicious biceps is peeled up at the cuffs, revealing strong and worshippable forearms. The front can’t hide how flat and firm his abs are. I must thank the maker of that shirt in my daily prayers. His black jeans are neatly pressed and fit just so yummily on his hips. For the record—yummily is not an adverb, but it should be. I’ll work on my campaign to Merriam-Webster, starting tomorrow.

His eyes are full of naughtiness as he meets my gaze. “Clearly you haven’t tried the Wheelbarrow with the right man,” he says.

I tap a red manicured nail against my bottom lip as if I’m considering this. “You think that’s the issue with the Wheelbarrow? Not the fact that I’d be upside-down during nookie?” I ask ever so innocently.

A lopsided grin shimmers across his fine lips. Yeah, they’re yummy, too. He simply suffers from an extreme case of handsomeness.

“I do, indeed, think that’s the biggest hurdle. There are certain advantages for the fairer sex when it comes to that position, but it requires a partner who knows exactly how to hold on properly,” he says in that deep, gritty voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like foreplay, which means everything he says makes you feel like a cat in mating season, even if he’s talking about changing the toner in the copy machine. I’d probably have a dirty dream about toner if he did.

But his filthy-fantasy-inducing voice is only one-quarter of the assets he possesses for wooing the ladies. The other three quarters? A thick head of soft and wavy light brown hair, cheekbones carved by the gods, eyes that inspire dreams of tropical waters, a body handcrafted by his own rigid discipline, and a brain shaped and chiseled by Stanford.

Fine, that was more than four quarters. Well, what-the-hell-ever. He’s got more than his fair share of chickadee-charming tools. It’s my job to notice this stuff.

Balancing my laptop and notebook on my hip, I shove my copper-colored hair off my eyes. “Is that your way of inviting me to take your wheelbarrow out for a ride around the garden?”

His lips curve up in a mischievous grin. “Nicole, don’t you know? You can ride this ride any time.” That’s where his teasing ends. “But holy smokes, the end of your show.” He clutches his hand to his chest as if he’s in pain. “Were you about to cry, too?”

“Oh, it was awful, wasn’t it?”

“So sad,” he says, shaking his head. “Almost makes me want to take on the job for Rachel myself.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m considerate like that.”

“You’d be a Good Samaritan of orgasms, then?”

“Perhaps it’s my true calling,” he says, in a completely serious tone.

“Patron Saint of the Big O?”

He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. That’ll go on my new business cards. Maybe I’ll even make house calls to administer my special brand of medicine.”

I make a stop sign midair. “You’re the worst. Seriously the worst.”

“But I’m the best at Ping-Pong. Are you all set for the match later this week?”

“I’m always ready for the matches,” I say, then pretend to whack a white ball with an imaginary paddle. We play on our company team in a tournament-style game that raises money for local kids’ charities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—Ping-Pong is a game that, if played well, is great for your ass. “Incidentally, I have a tip on the guys at RBC that we’re playing against. One of them has a powerful but ridiculously wide swing. So much that his teammate is constantly jumping out of the way.”

Ryder’s baby blues spark with strategic understanding. “Which means if we time it right when hitting to the teammate, we might find that the ball clatters to the floor while he’s trying to avoid getting whacked by the guy next to him.”

“Exactly.”

“Brains and beauty,” he says as he roams his eyes down my body.

He’s not hitting on me. It’s just his way. I give him a demure little curtsy as thanks. “Likewise.”

“Also, for the record, there are many ways to bring a woman pleasure with the Wheelbarrow. If you’re not enjoying it, he’s doing it wrong.” He steps closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his cedar cologne. He raises his index finger and moves it close to my lips as if he’s going to shush me. “And don’t let me hear those pretty red lips ever knock the Crouching Cowgirl again.”

I roll my eyes. “It. Hurts. The. Feet.”

“Boohoo. I bet it doesn’t hurt the—”

I pretend to zip his lips and throw away the key. I shoo him into the booth where he records his show. “Go dispense your manly wisdom.”

When it comes to on-air work, Ryder is basically, well . . . me.

But with a dick, and with the priorities that come with said appendage.

The funny thing is he was hired about a year ago, and his show was supposed to be a funny but earnest forum to offer dating advice to dudes. Lately, though, his show has been all about getting laid. It’s still funny, but it’s just different. A little crasser, if you will. Maybe it sounds like my show is about getting horizontal, too, but it’s not. My goal is to maximize women’s opportunities—for dating, mating, cohabitating, and, eventually, procreating.

“By the way, your show was great,” he says, his tone stripped of bravado now. He smiles, and it’s all genuine. “I always enjoy listening to it.”

I blush. “Thank you. Same to you.”

“Keep up the good work.” As Ryder heads into his studio, I linger a bit in the hallway, shifting my laptop to my other hand, checking out the man through the window.

I like to think of myself as a woman of many talents. I know how to run at the mouth on air, I can craft a snappy column on the dos and don’ts of the most popular fetishes, I can dole out excellent trash talk at sporting events, and I’m also a top-notch appraiser of men.

Picture an art appraiser. That crusty old fellow in tweed and elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, cataloging the brushstrokes, the signature, the type of paint in a Van Gogh.

He wonders if it’s fake or real?

Is it real or fake?

That’s me when it comes to men.

I flip open my spiral-bound notebook with dogs in spacesuits on the cover. I uncap my pen and scribble some quick notes.

Nice jawline. Check.

Strong arms. Check.

Height. Check, check, check. Because, you know, height is some kind of Holy Grail.

Charming and likable. Check-a-rooney.

The Stanford pedigree makes him especially appealing, though. Empirically, of course. I’m only jotting down thoughts for my ongoing research into the male species.

I head to my office to work on my latest column on the best knots to use in your scarves for binding your wrists together in front, behind, or above the head, as well as for tying to the bedpost, a chair, or the fridge.

Fridge bondage. It’s a thing. Who knew?

When I’m done with my tips for avoiding freezer burn in the process, my mind drifts back to checklists, attributes, and the best features a gal could want in that special someone.

And to Ryder Lockhart.